Mementos
by chrissie0707
Summary: WIP Anthology. Post 10X03 "Soul Survivor." Sam's watery gaze falls on a lidded box set aside on a shelf, where he's taken to squirreling away certain items over the years. Things with plenty of meaning, but not much use anymore. Spoilers through S10.


**Mementos**

 _Prologue_

* * *

Sam nearly takes himself out on the corner of his desk, loses a healthy splash of whiskey that coats his fingers on the way to hitting the concrete with a wet _smack_.

 _I'm gonna get drunk_ , he'd said.

Mission accomplished.

He's one glass in, exhausted but not tired, and his plans for the foreseeable future extend only as far as holing up here in his room. Maybe a shower. Cas is around somewhere, and Sam's not really looking to interact with people at the moment, let alone know-it-all, Debbie Downer angels.

 _Dean is no longer a demon, that's true. But the Mark of Cain…that, he still has._

That's Cas for ya. Always with perspective.

 _And sooner or later, that's going to be an issue._

Later. _God, please, LATER_. Sam's full-up on crises for the time being, and still in a decent amount of pain, though dipping into his brother's whiskey stash is taking the edge off considerably. He doesn't even really feel it when he inadvertently shin-kicks the bedframe and tumbles awkwardly into his desk chair. The chair slams back into the face of the desk, rattling damn near everything on top, and it seems about as good a place as any to stay for a while.

He's got time.

Dean's not likely to emerge from his own room for…God, he can't even _begin_ to know the time frame here, how long he should expect it to take his brother to heal from the effects – the _damage_ – of becoming a fucking _demon_. But he didn't think he was likely to find out staring over the man's shoulder. Sam hung around long enough to reassure Dean that he had nothing to do with his immobilized right arm and watch his brother pick disinterestedly through the bag of greasy, heavy food he'd fetched.

Then a dark, faraway look had fallen over Dean's face, and it had seemed as though they could both do with a little alone time.

Sam sips his drink, makes a face as the sloshed whiskey leaves his index finger sticky against the glass. He sets the drink aside and shifts in his seat until he can lift up and dig into the back pocket of his jeans for a handkerchief, and pulls out a few bits of thick, slick paper instead.

Photographs. Dean's, from his room.

He sits back heavily, chair creaking, and flips through the photos, one by one. He needs to return them; Dean will notice the pictures are missing as soon as he's…feeling better, and he'll want them back. He'll _need_ them back.

Sam reverently transfers the pictures to his bound right hand long enough to grip the arm of the chair and push up to his feet, only to lurch and waver and realize he's not in any condition to leave the room.

Mission _very_ much accomplished.

He scrubs at his suddenly swimming eyes with the back of his hand, bracing his unsteady body with a hip against the edge of the desk. When he drops his hand away, Sam's watery gaze falls on a lidded box set aside on a shelf, where he's taken to squirreling away certain items over the years. Things he can't – or won't – throw out, because he just can't bring himself to do so. Things with plenty of meaning, but not much use anymore.

Like he's caught in an emotionally-weak, alcohol-addled tractor beam, Sam shoves off of the desk and crosses the room, reaches for the box. He's gotten used the sling and is usually pretty decent with his left hand, but the whiskey's taken him down a peg or two, and he knocks it straight over the edge of the narrow shelf. The wooden lid _cracks_ against the hard floor, and the myriad contents of the box spill out.

And if that just isn't the maraschino cherry on the shit sundae that has been Sam's summer, then…

His eyes catch a glint of lamplight reflecting from something in the pile; something small and metal, on a thin leather cord. He sucks in a sharp breath and crouches, tired joints aching, and leaves the photos momentarily forgotten on the desk. He leans forward, sticks his knee right into the puddle of spilled whiskey but doesn't really notice, eyes trained on the object.

They hadn't even wondered about it, until Castiel had asked Dean, "May I borrow it?"

It hadn't been important, because the amulet's power had never been in what it _was_ , but what it meant.

Bobby had taken it from a hunter as payment for a translated text, along with a whole shoebox full of charms and trinkets, and hadn't had a clue what the amulet was when he'd handed it over all those years ago. He'd found it, discarded and coated in dust in the bottom of a drawer, when Sam had been young and naïve and asking for something to give his father as a Christmas gift. A sure sign that Bobby and Dad's friendship had been strained for far longer than even Dean had known.

The amulet never made it to Dad, of course, but ended up a gift for Dean instead, because Dad wasn't there. Wasn't ever there, it seemed, but Dean was, and always would be. It was the first – and possibly only – time Sam had thought to reward that. What it _was_ had never come up, not once.

It's difficult to hold both the necklace and the box with his one good hand, _and_ shove up to his feet, but Sam makes it work. He settles the box in the center of the desktop and sinks back into the chair.

He drains his glass, every last drop, and as respectfully as he can manage in his inebriated, single-winged state, tucks the amulet back into its spot in the box. Not because of what it is, but because of what it _means._ For now, and for safe keeping, he sets the photos next to the necklace.

Sam had rescued the amulet from that motel room trash can five years ago, and he's hung onto it ever since, waiting for the day Dean needs it again.

Whether for what it is, or for what it means.

He leans forward and runs his free hand over his chin, surveys the mess on the floor. He bobs his head.

No, not a mess. Mementos.

Memories.

* * *

 _Author Note: This is an idea that came to me the other day, to run through the sorts of things Sam has kept, for one reason or another, over the years, and the stories behind them. This won't be a traditional story, and the "chapters" will be super short, likely 200-500 words, and I'll update as they come to me. I'm not going to go so far as to say I'm open to requests, but if you have a thought or idea and want to PM it to me, we'll see if the muse likes it. There's really no telling what's going to spark her inspiration._


End file.
